


Disciples Of Boston

by DRHPaints



Category: Conan O'Brien - Fandom, Conan O'Brien RPF, Late Night Host RPF, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mention of Neil Peart's Death, One Shot, Rock Journalism, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Rockstar AU, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DRHPaints/pseuds/DRHPaints
Summary: When Conan O'Brien, frontman of the worldwide smash rock band 'Disciples of Boston' performs back home in Massachusetts, in addition to a fantastic crowd, he meets intriguing journalist Eleanor Eames and they head to the tour bus for a good time.
Relationships: Conan O'Brien/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	Disciples Of Boston

Silverburst Les Paul Custom slung across one shoulder, Conan leaned into the microphone. “How’s everybody doing tonight?” A cheer boomed and Conan grinned at the undulating mass of bodies. “We are  _ Disciples of Boston. _ ” Roar of the crowd crashing into him like a tsunami, Conan gestured to the guys. “And we are thrilled to be back in  _ Massa- _ fuckin- _ chusetts! _ ” The response deafened, orange hair on Conan’s neck standing to attention. Even after all these years; the gold records, the awards, the world tours—Conan lived for the electricity of performing.

“Pretty sure you all know this one. Fellas?” Looking back, Conan tapped his foot and Don smacked his drumsticks together to count them off. Launching into  _ Greener Days Ahead, _ Conan played, sliding up and down the neck of his guitar with ease while his agile fingers picked out the complicated licks. 

When Conan began to sing, the crowd joined in, familiar heady rush flowing hot. In these moments, Conan wasn’t in front of 20,000 people. The audience became one cohesive, pulsating mass, subservient to a single master: music. And as they groaned forward, arms raised, fingers outstretched, desperate to be a part of the shared experience; Conan commanded them, possessed by the muse as his slender body moved, reedy voice rolling up from his chest as he led a chant for the cult of rock.

Performing back home provided additional bonuses. Particularly dedicated fans and the open-air venue of the Xfinity Center brought an energy Conan appreciated, a liveliness they didn’t get in concert halls. As the set progressed, high on manic energy, Conan badgered the guys into an encore. And then another. And even though Don’s t-shirt plastered to his flesh from the exertion of slamming the skins all night, they agreed, knowing by now getting Conan to back down once he sank his teeth into something became nigh impossible.

Finally saying goodnight to an ear splitting cry, Conan lifted his collar to wipe the sweat from his flushed face as they descended the stairs to the small backstage area. Tossing back an entire bottle of water in one, Conan flopped down on the leather couch. One long leg crossed over the other, his foot jiggled nervously in the air. Stuck with an overabundance of energy after every show, people who didn’t know Conan often assumed he sported a major coke habit, but truthfully he never did much more than drink a few glasses of wine here and there. So while the rest of the crew partied raucously, Conan would often work out, or spend an inordinate amount of time signing autographs and taking pictures with fans until the tour manager, Jeff, dragged him back to the bus. 

Jeff worked with the band for many years, proving himself smart, loyal, and dedicated as a friend and professional. But sometimes, of course, he approached Conan with tasks he simply did not want to do.

“Conan?” Jeff sidled up halfway through his second bottle of water. “Press is here to talk to you.”

Azure eyes rolling, Conan laid his head back on the couch and sighed. He could tolerate most fans, they were earnest and sweet, Conan genuinely grateful his career existed because of their love for his music. But press...that was another matter entirely. Rock and roll journalists usually fell into one of two groups. First, the ‘Gotcha’ types, who wanted to know all about the gritty underbelly; who shot up after shows, how many groupies came back to the hotel, and could they ‘just take a couple of pictures, promise we won’t even use them.’ 

The second group were the ‘Partygoers.’ All wanna-be Gonzo’s, thinking themselves the next Hunter S. Thompson. And as a result they showed up to interviews drunk, high, or both; often offering Conan some illicit substance or another, rarely able to compose a fully formed sentence, much less a decent article. 

So when Jeff introduced a red headed woman maybe a handful of years younger than Conan wearing a press pass over a faded  _ The Police  _ shirt, he already felt surly.

“Hello, Mr. O’Brien, my name is Eleanor Eames,  _ Rolling Stone. _ ” She extended a hand and Conan shook politely. Catching him off guard, she did the same to Don, Mark, and Andy. Often reporters merely paid attention to Conan, ignoring the others, which not only infuriated him on their behalf, but flooded him with frontman guilt.

”Now, I’m very sorry to take up your time, guys.” Eleanor flashed a broad blood red smile. “I’m sure after a performance like that, the last thing you want to do is talk to a reporter. But if you’ll indulge me, I’ll try to make my questions brief. Do you mind?” She held up a little recording device and Conan shrugged.

“No, go ahead.”

Pulling a notepad and pen from her back pocket, Eleanor turned to Conan. “Alright, so, you’ve mentioned before that you credit  _ The Beatles, Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly _ and others as some of your influences. And now that you have established yourself as legends in your own right, groups such as  _ Harpoon Wednesdays, Grating Lemons, _ and  _ The Horny Manatees  _ all mentioned they see you guys as one of their greatest inspirations. So,” Eleanor looked up and Conan noticed her eyes were a dazzling shade of green. “What is it like living in that dichotomy?”

Blinking, Conan tilted his head.  _ Well, that’s a new one… _ Usually rock reporters asked the same questions again and again. ‘Who are you listening to? Who are you dating? What do you think about this-or-that band?’ So Conan found an intellectually challenging question, for once, refreshing.

”Well, I guess I think it’s a constant stream, not so much of influence, but almost of collaboration. We draw on one another’s creativity and take things in our own directions. These younger groups, sure, they’re going to sound different than people my age and we sound different than the older ones, and we probably can’t fathom what’s coming next. But at the same time, I think people will always drift toward things that resonate deep within themselves, music that speaks truth. That sort of thing transcends generations and genre.”

Once she finished scribbling, Eleanor grinned, pulling her crimson hair over one shoulder and distracting Conan with her swan-like neck. “Very well put, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Call me Conan.”

Eleanor nodded, doing her best not to let her eyes linger over how Conan’s faded Guinness shirt clung to his sweaty chest.

“Now Don,” Eleanor turned to face the drummer, who became so unmoored at the idea of being questioned directly he pointed at his face as if to confirm that was, in fact, his name. “Now, you and Neil Peart worked together quite a bit before his death, correct?” Don nodded, still slightly agog. “I understand you use his reverse-stick technique for a couple of  _ Disciple of Boston’s _ songs. Would you be willing to talk about some of the other ways he influenced you?” Listening raptly and writing while Don spoke about Neil, Conan watched Eleanor curiously. Conan stood alongside when Don got the call about Neil’s death, and he knew how Don’s heart continued to ache over the loss of his dear friend. The opportunity to discuss Neil’s impact on his life held special significance for Don, and Conan beamed at Eleanor’s thoughtfulness.

In fact, Eleanor posed individually crafted questions to all of the band members, each one creative and intriguing. Returning to Conan at the end, she referenced her notes. 

“Now this one is just for me.” Eleanor smiled coyly. “I noticed you were using the Silverburst LP tonight. Any particular significance to that guitar for you?”

Conan ran a big hand through his tangerine tresses, slightly stringy with residual sweat. “Oh, actually that one was a gift from Andy here.” Clapping him on the back, Andy’s apple cheeks grinned. “I considered using the White Falcon tonight but…” Lifting a shoulder, Conan ticked his head to the side dismissively.

“A White Falcon? Impressive.” Eleanor raised her red brows, frowning in appraisal. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at that.”

“Yeah?” Unfurling to his considerable height as he stood, Conan held out a palm to welcome Eleanor. “Come on, then. I’ll show you.” Crystalline blue eyes meeting Eleanor with a smirk, she could see every ginger hair of the scruff on Conan’s cheeks before he took the first long stride. Following, Eleanor used the opportunity to admire his extensive frame. Conan appeared leggy on stage, but up close he rocked some serious stems, almost freakish in proportion, but elegantly gliding him from place to place. Sizable hands twiddling at his sides, Eleanor smiled at the freckles peppering Conan’s wiry arms, her face growing hot when she imagined how far they might continue down his svelte body.

Approaching the tour bus, Conan gave the door three sharp raps and a short, stocky man with a scrunched face opened.

“Hey Sam.” As Conan hoisted himself in with a duck of his ginger head, Sam lurched out, and Eleanor stepped in after, peering around curiously. Neater than one might expect, Eleanor strolled past the driver’s seat with her hands in her pockets and a timid smile on her face. No discarded liquor bottles or drug paraphernalia to be seen, just the four stacked beds, a t-shirt puddled on the floor, a broken half of a drum stick, and a crumpled candy wrapper. 

Walking to the back of the bus, Conan needed to crouch a bit due to his extreme height, and Eleanor imagined this practice must grow tiresome day in and day out. Reaching the open seating area, Conan unearthed the ivory guitar from the corner, plopping down and motioning for Eleanor to join. 

Balancing the instrument on his skinny thigh, Eleanor reached out to stroke the artfully carved body, but hesitated. “May I?”

Chuckling, Conan nodded. “Sure.”

“Wow.” Eleanor trailed over the smooth surface, but Conan studied not her fingers, but the shape of her plump red lips. “She’s a beauty.”

“Yeah.” Staring into her emerald eyes, Conan laid his freckled hand on top of Eleanor’s. “She is.” 

Losing herself on the sea of his eyes, Eleanor heard the voice in her head, calling her a fool for giving in to lust for a rock star as she leaned in to anchor herself to those delectably thin lips. But she drowned on Conan’s simple touch whispering past her cheek, and after parting for a second to set the guitar aside, Conan’s lengthy fingers buried in her auburn locks, swimming up her body to caress her breasts over her shirt, taking his time as they drank deep of one another.

Laying her back, Eleanor spread her legs and Conan notched between her thighs. Conan’s smell surrounded her, musky and sharp from the sweat of his exertion, but Eleanor didn’t mind. Breaking away to kiss along his sharp jawline, Eleanor dragged her teeth over the sensitive skin and tasted his pale, salty flesh. Sliding a large hand underneath, Conan expertly undid her bra and Eleanor reached in her shirt to pull the black lace free. Hard column of Conan’s erection grinding with vigor, Eleanor rotated her hips, anxious for friction.

Pausing his mesmerizing touch, Conan scanned her face, orange brows furrowed in concern. “So you’re into this?”

“Yeah, of course.” Eleanor blinked rapidly. “Doesn’t it seem that way?”

Conan nodded. “I just like to be clear.” Moving to a small built-in cupboard, Conan opened a drawer which, to Eleanor’s vague horror, nearly overflowed with condoms. Turning, Conan held the tiny package aloft with a questioning look, and the softness of his expression, paired with the thick curve of his stiff cock evident through his jeans, erased any misgivings Eleanor possessed.

Nodding, Conan returned to the bench seat, slipping the condom into his pocket as he caught her lips, undoing her zipper as she relished his hungry mouth. Conan shucked off her pants and underwear, dexterous fingers creeping up the inside of her thighs, calloused tips not unpleasant as he delicately pet the lips of Eleanor’s pussy.

Conan reveled in her wetness, and as Eleanor started to rut against his hand, he used his thumb, index, and middle finger to milk her sensitive clit to ecstasy. It truly seemed as if Conan were determined to play Eleanor’s increasingly desire-stricken figure like a precious instrument. Talented fingers working vehemently, coaxing beautiful sounds with concentration until they rolled up without warning from some hidden part of her thrashing being. Clinging to his shoulders, Eleanor quivered around his sizable hand, eyes clenched tight and Conan’s long fingers slick.

Making his way down, Conan guided her pillowy thighs apart, too tall to fit on the seat so he kneeled on the floor. Seeing her spread before him, pink and dripping, Conan’s tongue darted over his slivered lips in anticipation. A lot of the other musicians he ran into preferred to pick up groupies for blowjobs, or a quick fuck before turning the ladies out unsatisfied, but not Conan. Maybe the thrill reminded him of the high from a cheering crowd, but something about hearing a woman scream his name set Conan aflame. The guys, frankly, hated anytime he picked someone up, as they would be stuck outside of the tour bus, smoking and trying to pass the time until Conan finished.

Diving forward, Conan lapped rapaciously, twirling the tip of his tongue around her clit with a greedy moan and a cheeky wiggle of his ginger brows. Small noises of delight tumbled from Eleanor as her fingers strolled through his orange tendrils, pelvis rotating and spine arching. Thin lips securing around her swollen clit, Conan sucked with fervor, and using two of his lengthy fingers he penetrated her inviting warmth, pulsing from within while his other thumb massaged the stem of her clit above his nose. 

Sounding near-hyperventilation, Eleanor’s thighs clamped to Conan’s ears, hands fisting in his tangerine tresses as all her muscles strained for one tense, frozen moment before she broke, unholy scream escaping as she thrashed wildly, eyes rolling and feet kicking. 

Conan didn’t stop. Working a third finger within her throbbing pussy, Conan stretched his crisp jaw, using his whole mouth to pleasure as much of her as possible, devouring eagerly and groaning. 

Beyond words, Eleanor’s hand beat the side of the seat before returning to nearly tear the hair from Conan’s scalp. Back curving and awash in a haze of overwhelming passion, Eleanor couldn’t catch her breath, disoriented with the intensity of Conan’s deft ministrations. She heard screaming, far away and unusual. The storm mounted between her legs, and when the cyclone touched down, ripping through her without mercy, the winds of rapture left Eleanor shattered in their path, shaken and weary. 

Pausing to bite her thigh, Conan’s tongue slathered over her again and Eleanor put a hand to his shoulder. “Stop.” She breathed, shaking her head.

“Oh no, I didn’t hurt you, did I? I just thought—“ Conan popped up, and were Eleanor not exhausted, she would’ve laughed. Expression deeply earnest and concerned, the entire lower half of Conan’s face shone and his ginger hair stuck out in every direction.

“No, no,” Pushing an orange lock behind his ear, Eleanor offered a reassuring smile. “I just need a minute. I’m a little overstimulated is all.”

”Oh,” Conan nodded, giving half a grin. “No problem.” Eleanor rolled to her side, commanding oxygen into her lungs as Conan tenderly drew patterns on her damp skin while they enjoyed a companionable silence. 

Composing herself as much as she thought likely to happen, Eleanor squeezed Conan’s big hand. “Okay.”

Grinning, Conan started to kneel again, but she grabbed the faded fabric of his t-shirt. “No,” Piercing him with verdant eyes, Eleanor pulled Conan up. “I want you to  _ fuck me _ .” Eleanor’s demanding, smoking voice set Conan’s cock twitching and he nodded. He didn’t like to be encumbered during sex, so he rose and disrobed, kicking off his jeans after fishing the condom from the pocket and adding his shirt to the pile. 

Staring at his thick cock, Eleanor gulped.  _ Fuck, he’s massive. No wonder he’s so confident on stage…  _ Fusing their mouths together, Conan applied the condom without looking and lowered himself on top of Eleanor with a contented hum. Eleanor tingled as the wide head painted through the drenched lips of her pussy before they parted, locking into Conan’s sky blue eyes.

“Ready?” Conan’s face hung above, handsome and purposeful as strands of orange tickled Eleanor’s forehead.

“Yes.” Pressing forth into her enchanting heat, Eleanor gasped, grateful Conan warmed her up properly, otherwise being filled by his huge cock would’ve been painful, but now the stretch intoxicated her endlessly. Coming to his knees, Conan took her by the hips and began lifting and rotating Eleanor. Swiveling concurrently with how he directed her pelvis, Eleanor threw her arms behind her head and dug her heels in as Conan somehow hit spots inside she didn’t know existed. 

Once Conan established the rhythm, he let go of one hip and fiddled her engorged clit to a cadence of elation only his practiced fingers could pluck. Constricting around his driving cock, Conan hooked his arm under her lower back to keep her aloft as Eleanor quaked, head tossed to the side, mouth agape and eyes twitching.

Shifting, Conan rested on the bench seat, scooping Eleanor into his lap until she straddled his slender hips. One arm curled around her ass, Conan tipped her back, parting his legs. Eleanor reached back to balance on the table and Conan began pounding into her with a fury. Knowing she would ache tomorrow, Eleanor didn’t care as she used her knees to piston down recklessly on Conan’s cock, head thrown back and bouncing without shame.

Arms turning to jelly, Eleanor fell back on the table, screams silent and convulsing, accidentally hitting herself in her stupor. Squeezing tight around his hammering cock, Conan let himself go, a high, stuttering whimper breaching as his hips jerked forward for the last time, thin lip bitten and nostrils flared. Staying inside, Conan grinned while Eleanor’s aftershocks fluttered around his sensitive flesh and she attempted to recover on the tabletop.

Eventually withdrawing, Conan stood and dressed, and Eleanor soon followed suit, legs wobbly as she retrieved her clothes from the bus floor. They collapsed on the couch, Conan tossing a gangly arm around Eleanor with a proud smile.

”So Eleanor?” Conan played with her red hair and arched a faint ginger brow. “As in, Rigby?”

Rolling her eyes, Eleanor nodded. “Yeah. My dad’s a big  _ Beatles _ fan. I am, too, of course, despite the name. He saw them in ‘64 for only five dollars.”

Conan whipped around, sculpted jaw dropped and eyes wide. “What? That’s crazy!” Shaking his head in disbelief, Conan sighed. “Lucky. I mean I was only one at the time, but what I wouldn’t give…”

Eleanor chuckled. They nestled quietly for a beat before she took a deep breath and patted her thighs. “Well, I guess I’ll head out.” As lovely as being ensconced under Conan’s arm might be, Eleanor accepted reality, and she didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

“Okay then.” Conan gave a sad half smile and they got to their feet, moving to the front of the bus. Stepping outside, Conan tucked an errant strand of scarlet behind her ear before drawing Eleanor in for a last passionate kiss. 

“Good luck with the article,” Grinning warmly, Conan’s touch lingered over her cheek and Eleanor nodded. “I look forward to reading it.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor stroked a thumb over one of his prominent cheekbones, glancing at the ground for a second before dipping once more into Conan’s oceanic eyes. “For everything.”

Bending down to brush his thin lips to her forehead, Conan nodded and smiled before they each lifted a hand in farewell. Eleanor watched, satisfied but forlorn as Conan’s slender frame traipsed back up the tour bus steps, headed to another city, another concert, another unfathomable life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment or come say hi on tumblr at fandomtransmandom. I also accept requests!


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